The air was crisp, sharp with the lingering chill of winter and the fading adrenaline of victory. Takemichi Hanagaki walked the familiar path toward Musashi Shrine, his body humming with a pleasant exhaustion. In his mind, the echoes of the Christmas conflict played like a triumphant symphony. Mikey's earth-shattering kick. Draken's steady command. The shattered spirit of the Black Dragons. Hakkai's tearful, liberated smile. He had done it. He had changed the course of fate, steered his friends away from another tragedy. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the future ahead didn't feel like a cliff's edge.

He stepped off the curb, a faint, hopeful smile on his lips, thinking of the next meeting, of Mikey's proud grin, of telling Hinata everything was going to be okay.

The world dissolved into blinding white light and a roar that wasn't sound, but pure, kinetic force.

It wasn't the graceful, dizzying plunge of a time leap. It was violence. An impact that shattered bone, compressed organs, and sent him spiraling through the air like a broken doll. For a horrifying, elongated second, he saw the skyline tilt, felt the gritty asphalt rush up to meet him, and then—nothing.

"..............."

He awoke on the ground.

Not in a hospital bed. Not on the cool linoleum of his past-life apartment. On the cold, uneven pavement of the exact same street, next to the exact same curb.

Gasping, he jackknifed into a sitting position, a scream trapped in his raw throat. His hands flew to his chest, his legs, his head, expecting wet ruin, compound fractures, the sticky warmth of his own life seeping away.

There was nothing.

No pain. No crumpled limbs. Not a single scratch.

But his clothes... his white T-shirt, his jacket... they were soaked. A grotesque, blooming Rorschach of crimson darkened the fabric, still warm and cloying. He patted his torso frantically, the metallic scent of blood flooding his nostrils, making him gag. It was everywhere, saturating him, a visceral testament to an annihilation that had left no mark on his flesh.

"What...?" he whispered, voice trembling. He looked around wildly. No screeching tires, no panicked crowd, no twisted wreckage. The street was quiet, almost serene. A few pedestrians walked further down the block, oblivious. As if the cataclysm that had just painted him in his own blood had been a private horror, witnessed by him alone.

An illusion? A leap? But this isn't how it happens!

Panic, colder and more profound than any he'd felt facing Taiju's fists, seized him. It was a wrongness that crawled under his skin. The victory of an hour ago felt like a dream, this blood-soaked reality a waking nightmare. He scrambled to his feet, his blood-drenched clothes clinging to him, a second skin of dread.

He had to find someone. Anyone. Draken. Mikey. They would know. They would see this and know something was terribly wrong.

His legs, steady moments before in memory, now carried him in a stumbling, frantic run. The familiar streets of Shinjuku blurred past, the festive December lights now seeming garish, mocking. The blood on his clothes began to cool, a chilling, sticky reminder.

And then, a miracle. A anchor in the spiraling unreality.

There, leaning against a storefront, tall and imposing with his iconic dragon-embroidered pants and a casual scowl, was Draken. Just... existing. Solid. Real.

Relief, so potent it was dizzying, washed over Takemichi. Tears of sheer, unadulterated panic and joy sprang to his eyes. He didn't think; he just moved.

"Draken!" he cried out, voice cracking.

He sprinted the last few feet and, without hesitation, threw his arms around the taller boy, clinging to him like a man clinging to a rock in a tsunami. He buried his face in Draken's jacket, inhaling the familiar scents of motor oil and cigarette smoke. It was him. It was really him.

"Draken, oh thank god, you're here, you don't understand, something happened, I was hit, there's blood everywhere but I'm not hurt, and I woke up and—" The words tumbled out in a hysterical flood. He pulled back slightly, still gripping Draken's arms, his eyes wide and desperate. "Is Mikey okay? Is Toman okay? After the fight with Taiju, did everyone get home safe? We have to— we need to check on Hakkai, and Yuzuha, and—"

He babbled, the names and events of the Black Dragon arc pouring out, the proof of his shared reality, his shared battles. He searched Draken's face for recognition, for that familiar gruff concern, for the unspoken understanding that had always flowed between them.

But he found none of it.

Draken's expression was not one of confusion for the frantic story, but of utter, profound non-recognition. His brows were drawn together, not in worry, but in cold, guarded suspicion. He looked down at the blood-soaked stranger clinging to him, mentioning names and conflicts that held no meaning, with the detached wariness one would show a dangerous lunatic.

He slowly, firmly, pried Takemichi's hands from his arms. The action was not violent, but it was final. It was a wall.

Takemichi's words died in his throat, the frantic hope in his eyes freezing into dawning, absolute horror.

Draken's gaze was flat, impenetrable. When he spoke, his voice was low, clear, and carried the weight of a verdict that shattered Takemichi's entire world.

"Who are you?"

The three words hung in the cold air, sharper than any blade. The blood on Takemichi's clothes, the memory of the victory, the love for his friends—all of it evaporated under that gaze. 

"What?..."

End